by Daniel Wyatt
It was also the first time he had called Pintsch by his given name.
Pintsch felt honoured. Nevertheless, Hess was warning him. Of whom? “I will always be your servant, Herr Reichsfuehrer. No matter what happens,” he replied in Hess’s ear. Hess smiled. They finally understood each other.
Pintsch took several more shots of the aircraft as Hess climbed into it. The Deputy Fuehrer waved and closed the canopy. Minutes later the mighty Messerschmitt gathered speed as it raced down the concrete. Pintsch held the camera by his side and watched the fighter as it accelerated with its near-full load of gasoline. It covered the length of the concrete and climbed into the sky. He saw the wheels suck into the belly. Then he returned his eye to the viewfinder as Hess flew the machine over the base, waggling his wings. It was the last picture that Pintsch snapped on that memorable day that would be locked in his memory.
The airfield manager, a stocky man with powerful hands, stood beside Pintsch and watched the fading outline of the silver-grey fighter with markings NJ-C11 head north. “I must say, Herr Captain, I can think of better things to do on a Saturday. How long do you think he’ll be?”
“I have no idea,” Pintsch replied truthfully. So many of his other flights had been cancelled. Maybe this one would be too.
* * * *
Pintsch grew impatient as he walked around the base. One hour went by. He stopped in at the cafeteria for some dinner. Two hours went by ... then three. Where was Hess? Was he finally on his way this time?
After nearly four hours had elapsed, the manager and Pintsch returned to the dispersal site. A dense mist had covered the field. The manager appeared nervous. “I do not like this mist. I should telephone Professor Messerschmitt and tell him the Deputy Fuehrer has not returned.”
“There’s no need to torment yourself,” Pintsch assured him. “He probably set down at another base. The Reichsfuehrer is an excellent pilot. Do you not have faith in his abilities?”
“Oh, I do. I do, Herr Captain. It’s just that something beyond his control could have gone wrong. A bad engine, a broken aileron. Perhaps ...” Distressed, the manager ran out of specifics. “I don’t like it.”
“Do you think I do? I’ll look after it. All responsibility lies with me.”
The manager backed off. “Of course, Herr Captain.”
Pintsch waited ten more minutes. Time was up. It was exactly four hours. He made his way to a small office at the administration building and closed the door behind him. He pulled down the shades, turned on the light, then asked the telephone operator for the Air Ministry in Berlin. Once the connection was made, he said into the desk receiver, “This is Captain Pintsch speaking from Augsburg.”
“Yes, Herr Captain,” a man’s voice answered.
“The Deputy Fuehrer has asked me to make a special request. He wants a radio directional beam sent from Aalborg, Denmark to Glasgow, Scotland.”
“That might be difficult tonight. Most of the available beams are directed towards London. A heavy raid is expected.”
“How heavy?” Pintsch asked, unaware of any raid.
“Five hundred aircraft.”
Had Hess known this? Pintsch wondered. “You have to give him a beam. It’s vital,” Pintsch pleaded. “I can’t reach him.”
There was a long pause, mixed with background voices. “Well, I might be able to help you with a beam, but it will only be good until 2300 hours. That’s all I can do.”
“Thank you. Goodbye.”
Pintsch hung the receiver in place and mumbled to himself as if in prayer, “Good luck, Herr Reichsfuehrer. You will need it.”
EIGHTEEN
Aalborg, Denmark
Hess made an easterly approach to the German fighter base for a reason. Over the North Sea, forty kilometres offshore, he banked his Messerschmitt to check his radio-beam equipment and found it worked perfectly. Pintsch had ordered the beam as directed. He had done well.
At ten kilometres out, Hess radioed the tower for landing instructions. He landed, taxied, and followed a truck to the tarmac, where the aircraft would remain until refuelled.
* * * *
Behind some trees on the road leading into the ME-110 Luftwaffe base, Colonel Wolfgang Geis saw the fighter through his binoculars. He nodded to the Gestapo agent nearby.
“There she is, NJ-CII. On time.”
* * * *
The first part of the two-stage flight had been completed without incident. Hess had carefully obeyed the air-zone instructions as laid out in the Fliegerkarte. He shut the ME-110 engines down, and saw to it that the ignition switches were off, along with the electrical services, master switch, fuel cocks, and that the radiator shutters were closed. The fuel truck appeared and an organized crew started the work of pumping high-octane fuel into the wings of the Messerschmitt. Hess filed a fake flight plan at the tower, then watched the crew go about their duties. When they were finished, Hess leaped aboard, eager to be on his way.
But, once again, the starboard engine wouldn’t start.
Hess cursed his luck. No tinkering by the mechanics helped. Hess remained in the cockpit. Half an hour passed. Still nothing. He knew he couldn’t cross the North Sea on one engine because the burden on the fighter would be too great. The range would be affected and the manoeuvrability would be restricted. The other concern was the letter to Hitler, although Hess knew it would take Pintsch several hours to deliver it to Hitler’s mountain resort. He could call Pintsch to cancel the trip. No ... he couldn’t. He had to go ... now ... today. The nosey Gestapo were already asking Albrecht Haushofer questions. If NJ-C11 couldn’t do it, then he’d have to take a substitute, one that didn’t have the stronger radio and the added auxiliary tanks in the fuselage. His old reliable aircraft wasn’t so reliable when he needed it most.
Hess took the screwdriver from inside his flight suit and with his right hand reached over to remove the plate to the right of his cockpit seat. As he did that, his left hand went to the bottom edge of the dash to steady himself. He felt something odd. He stopped for a moment and ran his hand along a metal box, the size of his fist. He bent down as far as he could, despite the tightness of the area, until he caught sight of the bottom edge of the object. It was a clock stuck to the metal with putty. What would a clock be doing under the dash? Unless ... He yanked the device out to look at it more closely. It was attached to a series of wires running from the clock to two small sets of explosives. And the clock was set to go off in another ninety minutes, when he was due to be over the North Sea, out of visual range of Denmark, away from any land mass and any prying eyes. Who was behind this? Surely not Pintsch. Goering? Hess wouldn’t put it past the fat man. Hitler? Himmler? Bormann? They were all suspects. It didn’t matter who it was, because Hess would now implement Plan B. Angry, he disconnected the wires and threw the bomb under the seat. He had to go now.
Thinking clearly and rationally, Hess continued in his work without getting out of the cockpit. In great haste, he managed to undo the screws and slide out the leather folder of papers and photographs. He shoved it into his briefcase, then screwed the plate back in place.
Suddenly, the crew chief appeared on the wing. “Herr Reichsfuehrer, I’ve checked the electrical system completely.”
“Well?”
“It could be the wiring or a dead magneto.”
“Never mind. Get me another Messerschmitt ready. Immediately.”
“Yes, Herr Reichsfuehrer. Come with me, please.”
Hess climbed down from his fighter as a scurry of activity erupted around him. He grabbed his briefcase and made his way to the refuelling truck. With the crew chief, they drove about two hundred yards to a row of four parked ME-110’s. The nearest one was new, not a mark on it, and had the fuselage letters NJ-OQ.
“What about this one,” Hess said, jumping to the ground and sprinting up the wing. He looked into the cockpit and saw it had the type of radio-beam equipment he had used before.
The crew chief was right behind. “But this i
s a brand new one that arrived only today from the factory. It hasn’t been properly air-tested.”
“It was flown here from Augsburg, was it not?”
“Yes, it was.”
“Is it fuelled?”
“Right up.”
“Is it armed?”
“No.”
“I’ll use this one. Hurry! Let’s move it!”
“Yes, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”
The rest of the crew drove up in their own truck and made some quick electrical checks on the engines and bolted the engine covers in place. Hess watched them leap to the ground and pull the scaffolding away. He let out an audible sigh when he received the all-clear sign. He pressed the starboard engine start button. The engine cranked, smoked, and caught fire and was soon roaring on its own. Then Hess started the port engine. Another crank. Another blast of smoke. Another roar. Both engines were soon running, all twenty-four cylinders, a combined rating of 2,700 horsepower. Hess waved at the ground crew and let go of the brakes.
* * * *
Half a mile away, Geis saw that Hess had switched aircraft. “Get the rifle with the scope!” he yelled to the agent.
* * * *
Hess had the port window open to bring down the cockpit heat. He pushed the throttles forward. He was moving. Suddenly, his starboard window shattered before his eyes, spraying Plexiglas into the air. What was it? A gunshot? If so, someone obviously didn’t want him to leave Germany. That was plain enough. First the bomb and now a bullet. Although a thrill of fear ran cold in his heart, Hess didn’t think of the impending danger because that same fear was his tonic. He grabbed the control column with his right hand, gluing his eyes to the runway. His left hand went for the throttle levers. It seemed so natural to him, like walking or driving a car. The fighter began to veer left. Hess adjusted, gradually pressing down on the right rudder pedal with his boot.
The end of the concrete was fast approaching.
Calmly, Hess eased the stick forward to get the tail off the ground. Now on the main wheels only, the fighter started to swing to starboard. Hess gave more throttle to the port engine. He was dead centre on the runway, the engines screaming in his ears. He was drifting again to starboard. More power to the port engine and he was back on course. Dead centre once again. The aircraft seemed to have control problems and it didn’t have the power that his own aircraft did. He slid the port window closed and locked it.
The black edge of the runway was seconds away. But for some strange reason the lift wasn’t there for a proper takeoff. He needed the right combination of speed and lift. He nudged off the throttles a touch. No sense wearing the engines down. If he didn’t get off soon, he’d smash into the trees on the other side of the field. He had to wait another split second or two. The lift seemed there now. The end of the runway loomed ahead ... the grass. He heaved back on the stick ... and the fighter responded.
The runway and grass dropped away as the fighter clawed her way towards the sky, barely clearing the high trees.
* * * *
Berlin, Germany
Himmler took the phone call from Geis in his office.
“Yes, Geis?”
“He got away, Herr Reichsfuehrer. The Deputy Fuehrer got away!”
“What are you so excited about? He’s on his way to Scotland, is he not?”
“Yes and no. He’s flying to Scotland, Herr Reichsfuehrer, but he switched aircraft. He took another Messerschmitt because his own wouldn’t start.”
“Why didn’t you stop him?”
“I tried. I sent my man over the fence. He took a side shot as Hess was moving down the runway. He got his side window. Whether he got Hess, we don’t know. He took two more shots after that. They both missed. Then Hess took off.”
“Geis, how could you! Where are you calling from?”
“The Aalborg Gestapo.”
“Did the people on the base see you?”
“No. We were well hidden and we made a hasty retreat. It would be difficult to tell where the shots came from with the engine noise.”
Himmler put his mind into high gear. They had missed killing Hess twice. They would have to get him the third time. Hess must not reach the appeasers. Hess must not return either. He’d get Hitler to use decrees to hunt down the culprits who tried to kill him. Himmler knew he had to cover the matter up quickly. “Listen to me closely, Geis,” Himmler said.
“Yes, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”
“Go back. I don’t care how you do it, but get that bomb, and get rid of it!”
“Yes, Herr Reichsfuehrer. I will do that.”
“Get our man in Hamburg to send Denise a message. Can you do that, Geis?”
“Yes, of course, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”
“Do you have a pen?”
“Yes, I do, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”
“Good. Take this down.”
NINETEEN
Firth of Forth, Scotland
A slim, attractive woman with dark, curly hair slipped through the broken window of the deserted two-story house on the cliff at the edge of the water. The fierce winds and salty moisture had peeled the paint in most parts to bare wood. The house had been in ruins for years.
The woman took the creaky stairs to the top floor, as she had done every day for the last week. Through the cracked window she pondered the waters. It was not the best day for a sub drop-off. The wind was picking up. However, the waves were higher during the last drop two months ago. It still wasn’t impossible, except for the fact that this one would be during the day. The area was an unpopulated coastline, but still...
She turned around and searched for the loose planks in one corner of what was once the master bedroom, and found her paper pad, codebook and British-made Mark II Suitcase Transceiver. She positioned the radio on an old dusty worktable that she had dragged up from the basement the first time she had transmitted in January. She lined the frequency crystals to one side, and switched the power on. As the set warmed, she loosened the top two buttons on her coat and glanced at the window to check the aerial’s position on the indoor windowsill. Then she waited.
Ten minutes to go.
At the top of the hour she placed the earphones on her head. Inside of twenty seconds she received her call sign broadcasted from Hamburg, nearly five hundred miles to the southeast. The airwaves were quiet at this hour later in the day. No distractions or jamming. The signal was clear. She removed her gloves and with small, gentle fingers adjusted her dial, thus allowing the signal on 7587 kilocycles to come in more clearly. She opened her set and began the transmitting by tapping her three-lettered call sign six times.
DLM... DLM... DLM... DLM... DLM... DLM...
Then she relaxed and waited for a reply. The receiving station answered with their call sign and followed with a coded, “WE READ YOU LOUD AND CLEAR.”
The woman let out a deep, assuring sigh, reached for her paper pad, and jotted down the dots and dashes that crackled over her phones. The message was average size. There was a lengthy pause after what seemed like the message’s climax. Then Hamburg’s call sign was repeated, signalling the end of the transmission. The woman followed up with her own call sign. Then, as if by magic, the line went dead. Just in time. Her back was killing her from leaning over the radio.
She sat and leaned against a dusty wall and with the codebook and pad in her lap, she began to decode the garbled block of words.
* * * *
RAF Dunhampton, Scotland
Jack Croucher and Ted Jones entered the operations room, each loaded down with their Mae West life-jacket, flight suit, boots, parachute and helmet.
Jones dropped his canvas bag containing his log, pencils, maps, flashlight, and compass by his feet and sat down with Croucher to go over the flight plan. Jones removed his maps and spread them out on the plotting table. Next, he drew a heavy pencil line from his aerodrome at Dunhampton to the first turning point, then along to Aalborg, Denmark. He measured the last leg at 130 miles, exactly 96 degrees. He figured that if Crou
cher cruised at 240 miles per hour, which was four miles a minute, they’d arrive at the turning point in just over thirty minutes. On a separate sheet of paper, he jotted down the course, the distance, and the time. From there he was to follow a straight line towards Aalborg. Ninety-eight degrees.
Croucher stood and sauntered over to the large map of Britain and Northern Europe on the wall. He saw the pinpoint marking for Aalborg. He ran his finger to the right of the turning point.
“Somewhere in here, Ted, is where we make our interception.”
* * * *
Forty-five minutes later, on the sun-baked tarmac, Croucher began his methodical outside check on the Mosquito starting with the starboard side first. He made his way to the tail wheel and fin, then worked up the port side to the bomb bay. Turning to the back section, he and Jones stopped to perform their customary good-luck leak on the tail wheel.
Croucher looked up to the aircraft’s belly, threw his dinghy and parachute through the hatch, and ascended the ladder. He sat in the navigator’s seat first in order to position his chute behind the control stick, then he swung over to the pilot’s seat once he had placed his dinghy on it. Jones followed up the ladder and squeezed through the hatch. He set his dinghy on his seat and sat down. He dropped his parachute pack on the floor. This is where it would stay until he had to use it, which he hoped he never would. He helped Croucher into his straps, then did his own. He checked to see the needed maps were in their proper order inside the metal box at his right knee. With a jar, the ground crew pulled the ladder away from the fighter.
“OK,” Croucher called out. Below, the sergeant slammed the hatch door from the outside.
Croucher plugged in his intercom and adjusted his helmet. From there, he went over the internal cockpit checks with Jones’s help. Lastly, he ran through his own checklist-confirm procedure that he knew by heart.
Main fuel cocks ... on outer tanks.
